Staying in a haunted room

 Dorchester on Thames is an odd little place. It’s where they filmed Midsommer Murders, which makes total sense. There’s not much here, except chocolate box cottages, a big church, old coaching inns and a wall with a thatched roof. It has the air of a place that used to be something. 

Yesterday’s walk from Abingdon to Dorchester was fairly uneventful. We were lucky and only had light rain, which was refreshing. 

Our room at one of the coaching inns wasn’t quite ready and the man looked at us, puzzled. 

“Why did you book a twin room?”

We hadn’t.

Then a conversation happened between him and a colleague about which room would be better. 

“I like 6.”

“No. Six isn’t the best. 21 is the best room in the house.”

“Oh! Twenty one! You’re right.”

They turned their attention back to us.

“Do you like a bath or a shower? I bet madam likes a bath and you, Sir, prefer a shower. It’s got both and a four poster bed and a big fireplace.”

I don’t know what we had done to deserve the best room in the house for £70 the night including breakfast. 

Rooms have a feeling about them. I’m not sure what it is but this room felt psychically active. There was a chatter about it. Thousands of people had passed through. Deals had been done, scores settled and the energy remained. 

The Long Suffering Husband has just woken up said, “Did you sleep at all? You were awake every time I woke up. It’s an odd feeling It’s like staying in a haunted room.”

I laughed and told him what I have just written.

People have probably died in this room and the clock from the church opposite marks every fifteen minutes of being awake. There’s also a slightly disturbing smell of cherry Bakewell tarts.

“It smell sweet in here,” the LSH has just said. 

Maybe I’m just being a bit over sensitive. 

It’s fine though because no one ever died from oversensitivity.

Except in Dorchester on Thames where a whole essay on the subject is written on a gravestone. When I get home I might need to find out more about Sarah Fletcher and her  martyrdom to excessive sensibility, although my instinct tells me that Captain Fletcher might have some culpability.